Long troubled by the sweltering dusk's annoy,
I come at last to this wind-bearing night.
Summer clothes feel slightly light and cool,
The autumn hall is already still and lone.
I rejoice in the vast, cool expanse,
Yet regret the fine days I've let go, by chance.
The cricket startles me with the year's work done,
I look back—what have I achieved, under the sun?
A faint, bluish gleam, the crescent moon's hook,
Its dim light pierces the dark soul it took.
The water-mirror holds the jade wheel bright,
As if seeing a jade disc in a deep spring's light.
Layered and uneven, curtains and windows loom,
One by one, they're draped in empty white and gloom.
Shadows of trees fill the empty bed,
Firefly specks adorn the deep wall, widespread.
Melancholy, I gaze at the Cowherd Star,
Once again, a whole year's distance sets us far.
Dew-webs sway wind-borne pearls, a sight,
The faint river floats in distant azure, light.
How could there be no deep autumn night,
To feel this sudden flow and change, this flight?
There is also the year of declining age,
Prime years, indeed, deserve our care, I gauge.
The cycle cuts right to the heart's core,
Feeling and thought chase the past once more.
Moments connect, no shade of time will stay,
What use to ask of piled-up, old dismay?
Fragrance praises the orchid and huilan,
Constancy instructs the pine and cypress, grand.
Living things inherently have their bound,
How can they compare to metal or stone, profound?
Moreover, within this span of a hundred years,
All is turmoil, a mess of duties and fears.
Sun and moon race east and west, on their course,
A flying chariot leaves behind no trace, no force.
Those to come are truly without end,
Those gone—where are they destined, to what trend?
To comply with how things are, that's the deed,
What good is bustling and striving, indeed?